The Lost Moments
by midnighrunner
Summary: For the first time in years, she didn't fear the passage of time – he had given her back her tomorrows, made them something she could count on again.
1. Chapter 1

A/n's: So. What we have here is a challenge I came across while writing _On the Devil's Left. _(I was actually introduced to it by ff dot not author Luxor Nautalis in her piece, _Unchained Melody._ Great stuff. If you're an Alice x Claire shipper, you definitely need to check it out.) What you do, is take 50 random words and then write one sentence to go with each one, but, thing is, I don't think I can write on sentence about anything, much less Wesker x Mooch, so I threw that rule out the window. ;) That said, I'll be posting these in two batches (i.e. 1 – 25, then 26 – 50).

I should point out that these aren't written in any specific order, rather instead just as inspiration hit. That said, they are all set post _OtDL. _(And it probably goes without saying, they are all Wesker/Mooch related.)

Forgive me the "seven seconds" joke in #6 – I couldn't help myself. X) Internet cookies to anyone who can guess which game (and thankfully _not_ movie) character is being referenced in #17.

Finally! As always, I hope you enjoy.

Warnings: Violence, sexual situations, swearing, and minor gore.

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><p><span>The Lost Moments<span>

Part one

"_In the end, I decide that the mark we've left on each other is the color and shape of love. That unfinished business between us. Because love, love is never finished. It circles and circles, the memories out of order and not always complete."_

_-Sara Zarr_

**01. Games**

The first time she challenged him, he sent her to the dictionary with a smug, sharkish smile, and she returned, tinged pink with flustered embarrassment; the sting of it was enough to hold her tongue through the "abatjour" and "cacoepy" that followed, but when "spagnoletti" hit the board she could sit quiet no longer.

"Oh, now you're just making shit up."

**02. Time**

Time had become a slippery thing since the end – clocks dead and useless when the electrical grids shut down, calendars worthless and outdated at the end of that first year – but it was even more so underground. One trip to the surface found the sticky, smothering heat of late summer, next time the world above had suddenly transformed into amber colored autumn, crisp and cool, then, before she could even turn around, winter was biting, ashy flakes of snow coating as far as the eye could see in a grimy blanket of gray. It was startlingly, dizzying in its suddenness, but she never let it trouble her for long. For the first time in years, she didn't fear the passage of time – he had given her back her tomorrows, made them something she could count on again.

**03. Fear**

She'd learned to sleep lightly, to accept the discomfort of sleeping fully dressed as a fact of life, to make sure her boots and weapon were always within reach – they were the lessons survival had dictated. _Always be ready, never hesitate, seconds cost lives…._ But now, she slumbered easily. Restful and content. How could she be afraid, what could she possibly have to fear, when she spent her nights cradled in the arms of the Devil himself?

**04. Noise**

She'd somehow made the silence unbearable for him. How, he didn't know. Why, he couldn't explain. All he knew was that he suddenly couldn't concentrate without the whispered rush of her breath in his ears as he worked; that he couldn't settle, couldn't relax, without the steady and true beating of her heart drumming in time to his own.

**05. Mistletoe  
><strong>

He sighed wearily over the sprig of mistletoe she brought back from a trip to the surface, chiding her even as she laughed, brushed her mouth over the corner of his, and pinned the tiny cluster to his lapel with quick, clever fingers; but later, after he heard her heart go slow and steady with sleep, he pressed it carefully between the pages of the red covered journal and tucked both into the little drawer in his nightstand.

**06. Jealousy**

Of all the things he'd never thought to expect when she'd arrived in his life – and that list grew longer by the day – the murderous rage that stole over him every time another man looked at her, smiled at her, spoke to her, was one of the hardest to control. Seven seconds, he finally warned, deadly serious as he rolled her beneath him and she grinned at up at him, her eyes glittering like chips of emerald and bronze in the soft, low light. Seven seconds was all he would tolerate…after that those fools would have no one to blame but themselves.

**07. Burn**

She hadn't gotten used to the way his eyes burned when he looked at her, or the way her body flamed eagerly in response – always ready, always hungry – and truth be told, she hoped she never did. She wanted to burn with him for eternity.

**08. Dare**

The first thing he felt when he heard the static choked voice of one her old comrades playing back through the speakers – barely audible, but undeniable in its familiarity – was not the rush of eager readiness he'd expected at the prospect of possibly getting his hands on Project Alice…it was instead a spike of fierce possessiveness over the sudden realization that they might dare to try and take her away from him.

**09. Animal**

For her, it was as much the beast as the man, which held her heart – that held the other half of her soul – and even in his blackest rages, in his darkest of hungers; she never failed to meet him when he reached out. Never turned away when he pulled her into his arms. Why would she? Like called to like, and animal in her cried out for the beast in him.

**10. Ask**

"So…when you two…."

Hazel eyes slid over, pinned her like a bug, and Blackfeather broke uncertainly, shifting nervously as her mouth twitched into a careful smile.

"…you know – does he wear the sunglasses?"

For a moment she just stared at the soldier, then she smirked, and returned her attention to the binoculars and the street far below. "Sometimes. If I ask him to."

**11. Bullet**

Guns were not her thing. Never had been. The noise, the motion, it was all very unnatural and jarring to her…but he was insistent. Arms relaxed, feet apart, she assumed the stance, just as he taught her, and _squeezed_, milking the trigger of the heavy Desert Eagle. The skin-warmed metal bucked in her hands, the crack echoing in her ears, and before she'd even finished blinking, a rust brown glass bottle down range exploded into a glittering cloud.

Beside her, he nodded. "Good." And a glimmer of red flashed at her over the edge of his dark glasses as the corner of his mouth pulled upward. "Again."

**12. Wonder**

Of all the things the T-virus had changed, had taken from him, it was perhaps the simplest of all that he missed. In the longest parts of the night, lying awake as she slumbered, how he longed to join her, to sleep and to dream…if only to stop himself from wondering if it was him that she saw in hers.

**13. Name**

They never spoke of it; and they didn't need too. It was clear in the way she looked at him; in the way he touched her. What need did they have to name something their souls already recognized?

**14. Sing**

She didn't sing in the shower as a rule; but the first time she caught him listening, she certainly made it a habit.

**15. Choices**

She was aware that her choice, her decision to turn her back on everything and everyone she'd known for him and the life they could have, would not be a popular one. She knew what they would think – that they would never forgive her, and that they would never rest until she paid for her betrayal. …but, so be it. There was nothing they could throw at her, do or say to her, in this life, or the next, that she couldn't face so long as her bow was at her back and he was at her side.

**16. Feast**

He had to feed - the influx of fresh DNA was the only thing that kept the mutation within him under his control – and necessity dictated that, generally speaking, the great bulk of Umbrella's employees were safely off the menu. Them he needed at their appointed positions and tasks, fulfilling the roles they'd be hired for.

As such, he was left, then, with only one option.

The silent survivors, sleeping away in stasis.

He moved amongst them, through them, weaving around the storage capsules, glancing up into cold, still faces as he passed, seeking one he didn't recognize. He would often return to her with blood on his hands, and though she wouldn't ask – she never did - he could still, at least, see to it that it was not the blood of one of her own.

**17. Eyes**

She'd never considered herself an especially violent, or jealous, woman by nature, but within moments of being introduced to the director of Umbrella Rome and listening to her simper and purr, she decided quite easily that if they ever happened to cross paths in the flesh-and-blood, she would all-to-happily put an arrow between that woman's big, batting eyes.

**18. Itch**

It was torture – like having an itch just there, out of reach, between the shoulder blades, but still – _always_ – she couldn't stop herself from watching as he hoisted himself up to the chinning bar, muscles bunching and flexing, sweat beading across his skin.

**19. Secrets**

Of all the names he had - from the respectful titles and to the cruel nicknames no one thought he knew - the one he secretly preferred best was the one no one but her dared even to say. The one she whispered to him when no one else was around; the one she panted, groaned, and gasped like a desperate – powerful – incantation as her nails bit into his skin and her body tightened around him…

_Albert…._

**20. Echoes**

He felt her jerk, her cheek jumping against his thigh and just as he glanced over from Dr. Brooks latest report, he saw her eyes fly open, the emerald and gold depths distant and wild.

Fingers stilling on the lock of silky hair he rolled between them as he heard her heart seize and skip unnaturally, he nudged her carefully with his leg and asked, "What is it?"

He watched her come back, saw his own reflection echoed in her eyes as she focused on him, and heard her heart flutter back into a normal, if faster than before, rhythm.

"Nothing," she murmured, swallowing thickly and dropping her cheek to his thigh once more. She sighed - a long, tired exhale - and her eyes fell closed again as she snuggled herself into a comfortable position against him. "Just dreams and shadows."

**21. Fairytales**

Looking back, she almost had to laugh. How surprising was it really, the way things had turned out, when even as a child, when all her friends were dreaming of castles and heroic princes on white steeds, she'd always preferred the Dragon.

**22. Fan**

At her heavy sigh, he glanced over…then leaned to look over her shoulder, following her gaze out the window and over to the dilapidated marquee that still read, after all these years, "Double Feature – Night of the Living Dead & Dawn of the Dead."

"To think," she muttered with a shake of her head, leaning back as their jet lifted past and the sign - and the carriers who shuffled beneath it, stumbling mindlessly toward their plane with their gangrenous arms outstretched - disappeared from sight. "I used to love zombie films."

He snorted, and sat back with a smirk. "One must appreciate the irony though."

**23. Rain  
><strong>

Despite the fact that the water raining down from the showerhead had long gone cold, they still managed to steam up the stall enough to leave behind a few erotic reminders in the condensation slick glass.

**23. Spar**

He bore down on her, the heavy drum of his bootsteps echoing in her head. She waited, waited, waited as long she dared…then struck! The bottle whistled by his head – of course he dodged – but the edge of the blade coming up from the other side caught, dragged…cut.

He swept her off her feet with a growl, flinging her away. She tucked, rolled, and came up on her haunches with a smug, self-satisfied smirkas the end of her knife dripped red and he swiped the back of his hand across his cheek with a snarl.

**24. Risk**

She never asked, never questioned why - but sometimes, just occasionally, he could see it in her eyes, in the thoughtful, quiet way she watched him; and the truth was, he had considered it, and the promise of what they could build together, of the new world they could birth, was indeed a powerful temptation.

So powerful, in fact, he was hard pressed to recall anything that he had ever desired so fiercely.

But, even so, he resisted. Refused.

The process wasn't foolproof. Mutation was still the expected, rather than a possibility.

And he would not, could not, risk her.

**25. Ball**

It was the last thing she expected – after all, everyone who had known the importance of the date was dead – so when he pushed the long, white box upon her without warning or preamble, she did experience some trepidation.

But once she had it open, and had figured out what all the pieces would add up to, it took her less than five minutes to be down on the floor - a set of Allen wrenches in one hand, a slender, wickedly tipped bolt in the other - having a complete and utter ball as she began to put it together.

A crossbow.

He had given her a crossbow for her birthday.

God, she loved him.


	2. Part Two

A/n's: Here it be, as promised. Part Two. I realized something after posting the first part – I had two #23s! So, this part will go from 27 to 50 instead of 26. Sorry, 'bout that, but to make up for it, a lot of these ones are quiet a bit longer than those in the first part….;)

Well, now that these are finished, I suppose it's time for me to knuckle down and really think about that sequel – I would like to do one, but have having trouble deciding where the story should go…I'm gonna have to give it some thought. Keep an eye on my profile for details, I'll keep you updated there.

Warnings: Minor swearing, minor gore, **sexual situations** (I mean this one, you are warned, ya'll).

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><p><span>Part Two<span>

"_You haven't changed, you've just become more of yourself."_

_-Oprah Winfrey_

**27. Curtain**  
>She leaned to read the memo over his shoulder and her hair brushed across his shoulder, falling into her face like a heavy, dark curtain; the scent of it, fresh and clean, and vaguely…<em>crisp<em>, like apples, tickled at his nose.

She reached to push it back – but he was quicker, hooking the silky locks back behind her ear before she'd even gotten her hand all the way up.

A simple pleasure – the feel of it sliding between his fingers, the possessive stroke of his skin over hers – but one he heartily enjoyed.

**28. Prison**  
>Prison. Dungeon. Hell.<p>

She heard all those in description of the steel and brick hive that kept them safe underground, and truthfully…she could agree with them. To a point.

Yes, she missed the sun, the wind…and longed to see and feel them more than the odd, top-side mission allowed her – but this was Umbrella's kingdom. Wesker's castle.

Her home.

**29. Tradition**  
>"This is a gross misallocation of resources," he told her, sounding wearily bemused as he tipped his head and watched.<p>

"I know."

She didn't stop though. Her hands continued to knead, to squeeze and roll the spongy, sticky dough beneath her fingers, spreading it slowly into a round, thin sheet. "But this is New York," she smirked, amused…and obviously pleased with herself. "It's tradition."

**30. Kiss**  
>"Kiss me."<p>

His mouth found her throat and he reveled in the taste of her; at the hot, feminine scent of her. "I am."

"Touch me."

His lips pulled into a grin, his teeth nipped…and fabric tore. "I will."

**31. Spine**  
>It was unnatural – unhealthy, at best – but she couldn't help it. She was fascinated, to the point of distraction, by the most innocent parts of him: the strong forearms visible when he, oh-so-rarely, rolled up his sleeves; the neat vee of his torso as his shoulders and chest narrowed down to his hips; that spot – just there – where his Adam's apple played in his throat; and…most recently, the long length of the spine that bisected the powerful planes of his back.<p>

She couldn't resist as he dressed, slipping up behind him to press her mouth there – to run her lips slowly down.

He tensed, muscles flexing – tightening - beneath her tongue, and he grabbed at one of her wrists, fingers wrapping hard. "Don't start what you can't finish," he warned, voice low and rough…and exciting.

She smiled against him, heart fluttering, muscles clenching – eager. Ready. Wanting.

She moved around him, fingers dragging over his skin, looked up and met his gaze – that burning stare – unflinchingly, and, holding it, sank gracefully down to her knees.

**32. Scream**  
>Whatever oversight had led to this moment, whatever idiotic incompetence, the person – or persons – responsible would pay for it. Dearly.<p>

But later.

Just now…a chair was flying through the air – heaved by the roaring, enraged and wildly mutated test specimen in response, undoubtedly, to the arrow jutting from its sternum; the heavy piece of furniture smashed against the wall, gouging into the steel with the scream of metal-on-metal, just inches from where her head had been seconds before.

….Right now, he had more important things to do.

**33. Poem**  
>He wouldn't write her love songs; wouldn't recite poetry. He would probably never bring her flowers or chocolates, or ever get down on one knee.<p>

He wasn't anything like what she'd expected to find, expected to want or need….but she did. For better or worse, wrong or right.

He was where she needed – _wanted_- to be.

**34. Planet**  
>The hologram spun slowly, mimicking the rotation of the planet it was modeled after, the various red and white rosettes that marked the remaining facility locations winking in and out of sight as it turned.<p>

There were less now than there had been – a mere handful left to represent the empire Umbrella had once controlled, the world that had once been theirs…had once been _his._

_And it will be again_, he vowed, resting his mouth against his laced hands, and glancing over his knuckles to find the brown-green gaze across the table. _It will be…ours._

**35. Blanket**  
>She was where she belonged. She knew that, accepted that – was gloriously content with that knowledge.<p>

But there was still…guilt. Avoidable turning the day, easy to ignore when her brain and body were occupied, but insidiously slippery at night, gliding in when her defenses were down to haunt her dreams, to mutate them into nightmares of pain, blood, and loss.

When she woke – and she always did – she reached for him, automatically, mindlessly; needing his heat, his strength…his heart drumming in time to her own to remind her that this, here, _with him_, was where she was meant to be.

**36. Insult**  
>The heavy glass just missed Umbrella Rome's director, the hologram shimmering out just as the improvised weapon passed through her head. It smashed against the wall behind, glass spraying, water splattering.<p>

He tilted his head and said dryly to the thrower, "You are aware, yes, that even if she hadn't disconnected she still wouldn't have felt that."

"But it still would have made me feel better," she snarled, folding her arms over her chest with a growl. "I swear, if I have to take one more back-handed insult from her I'm going to…" Her arms unfolded enough for her to curl her hands into claws – imagining the director's lithesome neck beneath them.

"What?"

She chewed the inside of her cheek, weighing her options…and enjoying each and every one. "Flay her. Skin her alive. Rub her down with BBQ sauce and drop her in upper Manhattan."

He laughed, that rough, rare sound, and her eyes snapped over.

"I'm not kidding."

"I don't doubt it." He grinned, amused – and vaguely, somehow, pleased. "I look forward to it."

**37. Voices**  
>They were talking about her; those voices crackling in through the speakers. She hadn't heard her name - they'd intercepted the feed mid-conversation – but she knew…just as she knew who they were despite the time and distance that separated them.<p>

'Betrayer,' Christy called her. 'Treason,' was the name Bill gave to all that she had done.

It was expected…but still…the words settled in her chest like rocks.

If there had been another way…if only they could accept as she had….

"Regrets?" came his smooth, cool voice, drowning out the satellite feed easily.

She looked up, met that gold and red gaze, staring for one long silent moment – then replied, honestly. "No." She shook her head, folded her arms and took a slow breath. "No regrets."

**38. Mask**  
>His blonde brows were arched as she approached, peeling up her reflective face protector and shaking loose her hair, a lilt playing around his lips.<p>

"Enjoy yourself?"

She grinned, looked back at the still slightly smoking, gore encrusted Hummer - from which the rest of the team had already begun to carefully remove the muzzled, bound, but still earnestly wriggling ordinance.

"Yes. Yes, I did."

**39. Finger**  
>"And what will you do?" he asked, eyes pinning her place even as his hands moved into her hair, gripped and held on. "When they come?"<p>

Her fingers wrapped around his wrists, holding hard, her eyes dark and deep. "What I have to."

**40. Umbrella**  
>"So…" she leaned back, water lapping softly between them as she wriggled gently, but maddeningly, as she got comfortable. "Why an 'umbrella?'"<p>

He grabbed at one of her hips, trying to still her forcibly. She resisted. On purpose, he suspected. Vixen. "Because a man with an umbrella never has fear of the rain."

She laughed, her skin beneath his fingers seeming to vibrate with the very joy of it as she turned her head and nipped at his jaw. "If you have something against water, I think you're in the wrong place, buddy."

"Perhaps…" he murmured, knuckles of his free hand grazing against her throat, fingers curling around her chin, angling her head… just so…so he could brush his mouth over hers. "But you're not."

All it took was a little shift, a little tilt of his hips and she was his.

**41. Italy**  
>She knew why they were here, knew it was a very good reason…but that didn't mean she had to like it.<p>

"Maybe I could just…beat her. You know, like a dirty throw rug."

He chuckled, but remained firm. "No, not this time, I'm afraid. She hasn't quite outlived her usefulness yet."

She sighed. He just smirked.

**42. Neck**  
>"You have got to start going easy on the biting," she chuckled, leaning close to the mirror, turning her head this way and that, examining the dark, purple-black horseshoe smudges staining her pale skin. "People are going to start thinking you have a vampire fetish."<p>

**43. Fever**  
>Forget disease. Forget illness.<p>

No sickness, no cold or virus had ever made her burn like this, had caused a fever in her blood like this thing between them.

**44. Cape**  
>She was sprawled across the bed, a book open in front of her face with the intent of reading, but just then she was watching him over the pages.<p>

"I like that jacket," she told him, eyebrows wagging mischievously at him above the edge of her book. "It makes you look like you're wearing your cape."

He frowned tiredly at her, and she laughed.

"What? I didn't say it was a bad thing. I like capes."

**45. Belly-Button**  
>"What are you doing?"<p>

"Playing."

A muscle twitched in his stomach, a quick reactionary tick to the warm velvet of her tongue against his skin.

"You're a strange woman, do you know that?"

She chuckled and feathered a kiss over his belly-button. "Do you know what this means?"

He tipped his report down so he could arch a brow at her. "Enlighten me." This was bound to be good.

"Somebody birthed you. You, Umbrella's dark and scary overlord, who strikes terror in the hearts of men with a look." She smiled, folding her hands on his belly and resting her chin atop them. "Tell me about them, your parents."

He paused. A small wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows. "I don't remember them."

Her own brow furrowed back at him. "How do you not remember your parents?"

His face smoothed. It wasn't worth concern. "They worked for Umbrella, and provided for me a way into the company fold; by comparison anything else is unmemorable."

Her exhale blushed across his skin, but she said nothing. Just looked at him for a quiet, watchful moment, then unfolded her hands to press a kiss to his belly-button again.

**46. Appetite**  
>Their appetite for each other was ridiculous, and, if nothing else, likely to kill them both one day.<p>

But…if she had to go, she figured there were certainly worse ways.

**47.** **Badge**  
>The square bit of plastic bounced across the desk, she caught it on the second jump with a quick, easy swipe of her hand.<p>

"Keep that on your person at all times, you'll need it to move freely about the facility," he told her as he unbuttoned and peeled off his jacket.

She flipped it over, looked. "That's not my name," she pointed out, glancing up at him from beneath her lashes, eyebrows arched.

"No," he acknowledged, hanging his coat in the closet. "But that's the only one they need know."

When he looked back a moment later, she was smiling.

**48. Nail**  
>"I'm just saying I can see where the Chairman's coming from – she's female, she's alive, and hey, beggars can't be choosers, right?" The guard grinned stupidly, elbowing his buddy in the side. "I'd totally nail her too."<p>

What that idiot was thinking, he could only guess….but one thing he did know for sure, was that he would never think it again.

**49. Lover**  
>She was never quite certain how to refer to him, to their relationship, in normal conversation.<p>

They weren't married, and boyfriend – besides just feeling _wrong_ – made it sound like she was thirteen and doodling his name all over her calculus notebook. Lover…got straight to the heart of the issue, but it didn't quite…it wasn't…_enough._

"He's…" she paused, considered…and shook her head helplessly as her lips quirked. "Mine."

**50. Threat**  
>"They can't have you."<p>

His hands were hard, fingers biting into her skin as his mouth tore over her body, hot and wild, making her arch instinctively, wantonly, against him.

"You're mine."

He yanked on her clothes; she pulled on his, a desperate sound of need wringing from her.

"Yours," she echoed. Her mouth landed on his shoulder, followed the curve of it to his throat, up to his jaw, his mouth. "Only yours."


End file.
